


move with me.

by buzzcutliam



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, New York City, danielle is danny aka trish, liam is nick, nick and norah's infinite playlist au !!!!, there are a lotta shenanigans and 5sos is an underground punk band, zayn is norah
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-05-12
Packaged: 2018-01-20 11:55:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1509575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buzzcutliam/pseuds/buzzcutliam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a ‘nick and norah’s infinite playlist’ au where liam is nick, zayn is norah, and the city is their’s for the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. liam

**Author's Note:**

> okay this is a repost bc i got the first two chapters up last time and i had some issues with the feel of it so i needed a new slate. thanks to everyone who read before but now this is the Real Deal i guess  
> the premise is the same as 'nick + norah's infinite playlist' but the rest is gonna be different--i just wanted to have an excuse for the boys to run all over nyc tbh.  
> yeah but thanks for reading hope you like it!  
> i don't own one directionnnnn  
> the title's from "techno fan" by the wombats

the night begins with a “fuck you, new york!”

harry thinks he’s being cheeky. niall’s got his guitar hooked up to a neon green amp (shamrock, he calls it). the synth drums blare out of the speakers and they start the last song on their set.

they’re in some grunge-y indie gay bar. the kind that’s been around since the eighties and has posters from the stonewall riots up plastering the walls. it’s called ‘the junk yard’ and niall got them this gig off of craigslist. harry and liam were both convinced that it was just an elaborate ploy for murderers, a front for the mob, maybe. but, fuck, it wasn’t. 

they are actually playing to people--they are actually getting paid to play to people. and it almost feels too good to be true, like liam's in some kind of fever dream. but he's not.

no, he's being blinded by the light raining around him. he’s got his fingers moving across the strings of his bass. he’s fucking chords into the air, drenched with the feeling of noise and screaming and the electric feel of more, more, more.

liam’s got his eyes on the light washing out the audience. he’s lost in the bassline. he is the bassline. the sound waves pumping through the speakers match the heartbeat pulsing through his chest. his body, mind, soul are tuned into the noise surrounding him. harry is screaming into the microphone. niall’s jumping up and down. liam’s got his feet rooted to the sticky stage floor and his fingers are working through the notes.

he’s chewing on the inside of his cheeks. he does this when he really gets into it, when he’s really focused on mapping out the song. his knuckles are probably white as he kicks back against the sound of niall’s guitar. pushing them further into the melody, further into the cascading ups and downs of harry’s gravelly voice sliding over chords.

when he closes his eyes he sees blue and yellow and red flashing against his eyelids. they look like music to him: dizzying and euphoric.

harry’s got his hair pushed back with a headband he stole off of his sister. it’s patterned with butterflies but harry pulls it off because harry pulls everything off. liam can see the veins in his neck stretch against the skin when he tips his head back to scream/sing into the mic. and liam smiles because he knows that harry throws everything he's got into performing. he looks like a rock star all the time but it’s when he’s on stage that he actually feels like one. liam can see harry's profile as eyes the audience and smirks, cocky. it drives the crowd wild. he taps out the beat of the song in the air while he waits for the riff into the chorus to start again, blowing a kiss to someone standing in the crowd. he winks suggestively and liam laughs because liam would probably hate harry if he hadn't known him his entire life.

harry looks like an asshole, but he’s anything but.

the song builds up and liam’s got his fingers working on the bass. harry’s screaming into the mic again.

“no we can’t make up our minds/cause when we think we’ve got it right/we go na na na na.”

liam doesn’t know why harry thought it was a good idea to write this fucking song. ‘cause harry looks punk rock but he’s got a huge boner for boy bands and shania twain. but harry insisted cause he says that he wants to push the envelope, create a new wave of punk. wants to be revolutionary and ‘stick it to the elitist geezer punks who’ll pretend they knew us first’.

_(“it’ll be great, liam!” harry said three weeks ago, tying dandelion stems together in liam’s parent’s garage. “the lyrics are totally vapid, yeah? but the sound is intense. it’s ironic because punk’s all about non-conformity and even though we’re conforming cause we’re using pop lyrics, we’re still non-comformists cause we’re not conforming to the general punk vibe.”)_

liam still doesn’t understand it but he also doesn’t give a shit. he can’t give a shit when he feels the noise vibrating in his teeth. he is the second hand, the metronome. he is the dots that connect harry’s shrill shrieks and niall’s erratic strumming. liam is a steady: one, two, three. the stars that make their constellation. he closes his eyes for a bit, tips his head back, and lets the noise wash over him.

he’s feeling alive for the first time in a long time.

they are “the firefucks” tonight. niall’s in charge of naming them. he said he ‘did it for liam’ because liam wanted to be a fireman when he was younger but he knows that it was just because niall was jerking off to some porno set in a firehouse and got inspired. most of niall’s inspiration happened when he watched porn, apparently.

they were “foot fetish” when they started, then “wanksquad” (when harry was going through his “i want to rap” phase), then ‘the circle twerks” (lasted half a set), and now, “the firefucks”, liam guessed. better than most of niall’s suggestions though.

_(”no, niall, no one’s gonna think ‘microbone’s’ a laugh.”/”’grasshole’ isn’t clever.”/”nandos is going to sue us if we call ourselves ‘nan-do me’.”)_

but tonight, liam does feel like a “fire fuck”—whatever the hell that means. he feels like he’s on fire. like his blood is gasoline and the music is a flaming red and orange match striking against his veins with every beat. he opens his eyes again. harry has his shirt off, his chest gleaming with sweat. the sparrows on his pecs are probably shining and harry flexes his arms, subtly, to show off the tattoos littering his biceps.

niall’s got his fingers racing across the frets of his electric-acoustic. harry’s screaming the chorus again: “we go na na na na/na na na na/na na na na” when he kicks the mic stand down.

the lights stop blinding liam’s vision when harry stands in front of them and that’s when liam sees him.

him with the golden brown eyes and curly hair and tan, tan skin. he smirks, looking liam up and down, and then slowly, slowly dragging his eyes away from liam’s.

and, _fuck_. it’s like liam’s always looking for his face; like his eyes are magnets, attracted to him, him, him. fuck, and liam told him not to come tonight. liam looked into his eyes for the last time and he said: “danny, please don’t come to my shows.”

so, of course he’d come to his show.

harry’s still standing in front of the spotlight and liam can see his favorite batman shirt (the one he wore to their first date) spread over danny’s broad chest. liam’s breath is caught in his throat when he trains his eyes on liam again. danny’s smirking, leaning back into some scrawny blonde who has his hands draped around danny’s waist possessively.

liam clenches his jaw.

danny tips his head back, eyes still on liam, to whisper something into the other guy’s ear. liam remembers when danny would whisper the filthiest things into his ear but he forces himself to pull his eyes off of the boy who was all sharp bites and teasing hands.

and, fuck, liam’s lost his place. he’s not the metronome anymore because he’s a good three beats behind everyone else. harry’s stuck on the chorus and niall sounds like he’s about to get into a solo and never has that been a good idea. liam’s hands are slipping along the frets and he’s trying to find a fucking way to end the song but harry’s started another bridge and he’s just making up the words as he sings them but liam wants everything to just stop.

it’s a frenzy this time but the wrong kind of frenzy. the kind of anarchy that’s screaming: ‘in too deep’.

liam’s working on making his chord progressions faster, faster, faster without having his fingers slip. he doesn’t want anyone to know he’s breaking down. he doesn’t want danny to know that he’s the reason why liam’s breaking down.

they’re in some shitty run down gay bar and liam is watching his band’s set go to hell because he couldn’t handle seeing his fucking ex-boyfriend in the crowd. but when liam’s heartbeat paces back to normal, he feels the music come back into focus. and he feels the song slow to a close.

harry finally moves away from the light to tip his head back into one last “na na na na” and niall ends them with a riff. the crowd applauds even though liam’s sure they're only applauding the fact that they're finished. 

liam locks eyes with danny one last time when the light fades onstage. he’s got his hazel irises trained on liam and liam wants to know why the fuck he won’t leave him alone.

_(”liam,” danny would tease: "liam come back."/"liam, i wasn't actually mad at you."/"i thought you'd try harder to get me back, lili." he had a syrupy sweet lilt to words that just dragged liam deeper into whatever they were)_

liam gets their instruments packed and stored into the back of harry’s van. he’s got the bass and electric guitars stacked in one corner and the neon green amp stacked in another (”luck of the irish,” niall always says). there’s a soft breeze outside, warm enough to make him feel comfortable again. but liam still remembers the shock of curls on danny’s head, the golden flecks in his eyes that he swore he could still pick out from the stage. liam’s fucking shaking.

he could stay outside till harry and niall come out. he could just leave, he did bring his own car. some patch worked hot pink beatle his older sister left behind when she went to school all the way in london. he could. fuck, he could. but tonight was about forgetting. the big “fuck you” to danny and high school and every moment of his life that had gone wrong before this one.

he wouldn’t have even come tonight if he knew danny would be there. he would have stayed home and made more mixtapes about his broken heart, scrawled lovesick lyrics on the side of takeout containers he’d be too lazy to properly throw out.

but, fuck. liam is here. liam did just play one of the biggest gigs he’s ever played. and even if it is in some shady bar with blacklights in the toilets, all liam remembers is the way danny quirked one eyebrow, eyes dragging up and down his body till they were locked into liam’s.

and he can’t let danny take anything more from him.

so, fuck liam if he’s going to back down.

danny always made him feel like shit and liam just always took it. 

so, tonight, liam is not going to back down and back off like he might have before.

liam closes the back door of the van and locks it, pocketing the keys in his green army jacket. he breathes in, breathes out, drags a hand over his buzzed hair and down his face. ‘this is going to be okay,’ he thinks. repeats it like a prayer. and walks back through the backdoor.

he starts towards the bar where he figures harry’s going to be. probably. unless he’s managed to start hooking up with someone already. that’s the kind of guy harry is, though. his dimples charm their way into anyone’s pants, and harry’s not picky. he’s got “free love” tattooed on his left thigh and that’s the one motto he lives by. but even if he’s on his knees in the grimy just-passed-inspection bathrooms, liam knows that niall’s definitely going to be at the bar. so he walks over anyway.

the guys scattered across the pit look at liam like he’s straight. it always happens. maybe it’s the cliche that every queercore band has a token straight guy and how liam looks more high school quarterback than one of those camp theatre kid types. some of the brave one’s wink or give him an obvious once over but most of their eyes just rake across his body warily. they think he’s a challenge or something.

and liam just wishes that he could care enough to eye them back, chat them up. but, if he’s honest, he hasn’t cared about much since danny.

nothing’s happened since danny.

still, liam offers friendly nods to the guys at the bar. he’s not old enough to drink or anything but it’s not like they actually card or care as long as you’ve got money in your wallet (thank capitalism). he sees harry with his arms draped around a tall guy in a neon ‘justin bieber’ tank and liam rolls his eyes because, of course harry would go for one of those ‘i’m doing this ironically’ assholes.

but harry sees liam walking by and waves him over. the belieber looks pissed.

“hiya, li! all packed?” harry asks, taking a swig of something that’s an obscenely bright shade of blue. liam winces at the thought of the taste.

“yeah, all in the van,” liam replies. he looks between the guy on harry’s arm and harry until harry gets the hint.

“oh! this is nick, liam.” nick extends an unenthusiastic hand towards liam. liam takes it because his parents raised him to be a polite bastard.

“are you coming with, or?” liam lets the question hang in the air and watches harry’s cheeks turn red. he leans over to nick and catches him in a quick kiss before turning to liam again.

“yeah, we should be quick i think,” he says, dimples showing, an eyebrow raised suggestively, as nick pushes him towards the crowd. there’s a spice girls cover band setting up onstage and liam can't see niall anywhere. he sighs, dragging his hand over his face again. he turns towards the bar to get him something to drink when he catches a flash of danny’s face across the crowd.

his stomach pools with apprehension. he’d forgotten for a bit that danny came tonight. he’d forgotten for a bit that danny even existed, really.

he turns towards the bar, face forward. he’s going to wait for harry. he’s going to wait and then he and harry and niall are going to go to the diner on 34th street and liam will have a root beer float and some hot wings. they will talk about how harry’s extended version of “na na na na” was shit and how many strings niall has to replace on his guitar after tonight. they’ll laugh and make up new words to the latest top 40 hit and harry will give their leftovers to one of the homeless people they pass because he feels bad.

they’ll wake up tomorrow, hungover on life, and danny won’t be important or even relevant to liam anymore.

still, when he blinks he can see danny’s face, his lips curved into that smile that always left liam wanting more.

liam lets out a frustrated groan as he keeps waiting. there’s a boy next to him, rapping his knuckles against the wooden counter. he’s got the leather sleeves of his jacket pushed up to his elbows and liam’s not sure if he’s trying to bring punk back or just trying too hard to look hardcore. but from the way he’s shifting awkwardly and the temperature of the room, liam’s pretty sure he’s not wearing the jacket ‘cause it’s comfortable’.

still, liam’s not complaining because he can make out the dark outlines of the tattoos that glow sharp against his tan skin. they litter his arm and they’re so intricate and interesting that liam wants to know why he got them and when he got them. wants to trace them till he's got the stories written in the ink memorised.

but, liam shakes his head, eyeing the profile of the other boy’s face, tonight’s not that kind of night.

he leans his head down on the counter, trying to still the bar around him. he runs his hands over his hair, regretting, for a moment, the decision to shave it.

_(”liam just fucking do it,” harry said, waving the clippers in his hand._

_“i’m not sure, harry, what if i don’t like it?” liam stared in the mirror, fingers sliding through his curly locks. all he could think was the way danny said he liked liam’s hair curly, how he’d pull on it when they were a frenzy of panting breaths and messy kisses._

_“we’ve been through this, you just said you—” and liam didn’t want those memories to be the ones that flooded his mind when he looked in the mirror anymore, so—_

_“fuck it. buzz it harry. now.”)_

no, he doesn’t regret the decision to shave it. not when he was just watching his bat symbol shirt splay over danny’s chest tonight, not when he was just watching danny press his lips into some bottle blonde’s neck while looking straight into liam’s eyes.

no. tonight’s going to be a new beginning. it’s going to be a new—

“liam!”

liam whips his head toward the sound. like he’s one of pavlov’s dogs. it’s humiliating but liam’s been aching to hear that voice call out for him again. to hear the lilt of that accent play with the syllables of his name again. to hear it moaned into his ear but to also just hear it whispered when it wasn’t also a goodbye.

and he can't deny how badly he wants it all back. how badly he needs it all back. 

but liam knows danny is playing a game. liam knows that he spent the last few weeks leaving messages that were deleted, calls that were ignored. and liam knows that if danny really cared about him, he wouldn’t be walking towards him with a blonde on his shoulder and a challenge on his lips.

so liam’s brain short circuits and he turns to the tattooed boy next to him and taps him on his shoulder. and when he turns around, fuck, liam looks at his doe eyes and soft cheeks and thinks he’s beautiful but his fingers are still twitching with  _dannydannydanny_ so he does the only thing he can think of and asks the boy:

“hey, i know this is gonna sound weird and i know i’m a stranger, but would you mind being my boyfriend for the next five minutes?”


	2. zayn

 

he’s gay. he’s so obviously gay, it’s almost painful how gay he is.

louis says he isn’t but, zayn thinks, _louis_ is halfway to being blissfully blackout drunk so his judgment isn’t exactly stellar at the moment.

and zayn just knows these things, anyway, alright? everyone always says that every queercore pop-punk whatever-the-fuck-these-guys-are bands have a token straight guy. but if they do, it’s not the kid with the buzzed hair and flannel shirt. well, zayn hopes it’s not.

and it’s not just because zayn hasn’t been laid in what feels like years. there’s just something about the way this kid is clearly freaking out onstage while the curly one strips and the blonde one keeps jumping up and down that makes zayn want to push him against a wall and make out with him until he can’t remember his own name much less whatever's making him frown like that. he’s got this huge forehead all creased with worry lines and zayn’s the last person to get all fucking cute over anyone but he just wants to smooth them away. through some cathartic mind blowing tantric sex, maybe.

okay, so maybe it is because zayn hasn’t been laid in what feels like years, actually.

whatever.

it’s not like zayn can actually leave louis alone for an extended period of time. especially not when louis is holding a neon green abomination in his hand and leaning his head back to scream, “shots! shots! shots! shots!” repeatedly. besides, zayn doesn’t do baggage. and this kid looks like he’s got Baggage.

zayn tries not to cringe at the feedback coming from the speakers. they’re not a terrible band. their lyrics are inane but zayn’s heard worse. he thinks the stripping works in their favor. part of their charm. even if their lead singer’s tattoos are ridiculous (a butterfly, really?), zayn’s nowhere near complaining.

he really, really, really needs to get laid.

zayn rubs his forearm, pushing up the sleeves of his leather jacket, and watches them finish their set. the lead singer’s dripping with sweat but zayn’s got his eyes on the boy with the buzzcut. he looks worried. zayn would say scared but he’s not sure what the deal with this kid is. and, when zayn hears louis chanting again, he really can’t care.

by the time the next band starts setting up, zayn’s not even thinking about “Buzzcut” or fucking anyone at all. not when louis’ face is flushed from drinking and he’s got one hand holding  _another_ drink and the other dragging down some wide-eyed try hard’s chest. he’s leaning against the bar and zayn’s pretty sure that the support of the counter is the only thing that is keeping him upright right now.

zayn rolls his eyes. typical tomlinson behavior, that is.

zayn has no idea how he managed to become friends with such a typhoon of energy and electricity and excitement, but he knows that if louis hadn’t been such a huge part of zayn’s life since they were learning to walk, that he probably wouldn't be able to stand him.

as it is, zayn’s parents are more in love with louis than they are with him. or themselves. but they forget about all the little arguments when louis’ around with his bright blue eyes and scheming smiles. zayn knows that his sisters love louis’ mischief and the way his mind doesn’t seem to have matured since he was ten, so it works out for the entire family.

he’s charming, is what it is. and zayn’s stupidly fond of it. even when it’s annoying. even when it involves zayn taking care of him on nights when _the both of them_ were supposed to get pissed out of their mind. but zayn's not upset.

louis’ been the one constant in zayn’s life that doesn’t have zayn wanting to pull his hair out strand by strand. and louis looks out for zayn when he’s being especially broody. after all, louis’ the one who made zayn get up and leave his room tonight.

_(”—but 5 seconds of summer are playing a secret show, tonight!” louis had said, flopping on zayn’s bed, arms splayed wide so they hit zayn right in the gut. ouch. “this is huge. zayn.” louis crawled on top of zayn, squishing his cheeks together while he stared into his eyes. “zayn. tell me you know how huge this is.”_

_“i know how huge this is louis, but—” zayn said, wiggling away from louis’ grabby hands and pushing his glasses up on his nose. but that’s all louis needed to hear._

_“great, then! it’s settled. you’re gonna put some contacts in and we’re gonna go watch musical history be made.”_

_zayn rolled his eyes but put on his leather jacket, anyway.)_

and zayn’s happy about that. even if it’s just because he got out of his room without charcoal pressed into his cheeks or paint splattered across his arms. but louis looks like he needs someone to rescue him from himself, so zayn does.

the look in louis’ eyes is determined and his hands clutch the boy’s shirt in a way that zayn knows is going to lead to messy regretful blowjobs and pints of ice cream to cry into tomorrow morning. so zayn does what good friends do and slides up next to louis and pries his hands away from the sweat soaked shirt. gross.

“thanks for looking after him,” zayn says, waving with exaggerated gratitude.

he drags a frowning louis away from the scene and props him against the sticky bar counter again.

“lewis,” zayn scolds, sing song.

louis pouts, his eyebrows bunching almost angrily. “he was pretty!”

“he was wearing eyeliner, louis.”

“you wear eyeliner all the time,” louis protests.

“yeah, ironically,” zayn scoffs. he didn’t. only sometimes. “fuck off.”

“i was ABOUT TO,” louis says, dramatically. “cockblock,” he sighs under his breath.

zayn smirks. “i’m getting you some water, yeah?”

“yeah, mom.” louis says, jutting out his bottom lip petulantly and rolling his eyes.

zayn laughs again and turns to the bar. he’s pressed up against so many bodies that his leather jacket feels like a space heater. he fidgets when he feels another body press against him and zayn lets out a huff of frustration, going to glare at the person who’s just indecently fucking the concept of personal space. but, zayn doesn’t end up glaring when he sees a blur of that familiar blue-green plaid.

the boy slouches on the bar counter, sighing heavy, and runs a hand over his buzzed hair. zayn resists the urge to do the same thing. and instead, starts to rap his knuckles against the sticky wood of the counter while he waits for the bartender to hurry the fuck up and serve him.

zayn’s about to book it and just drag louis to the closest 24 hour grocery store when he hears the awful unmistakable cadence of danny’s voice.

“liam!”

zayn turns his head, a habit, and sees danny making his way over to zayn’s spot in the bar. he’s dragging a blonde bimbo who’s got a hand on danny’s ass.

 _'that's liam?'_  zayn thinks.

he doesn’t look like a liam—well, he doesn’t look like the liam that zayn had been imagining. the liam with the amazing music taste and the comic book wrapping paper and the, well, pining. the liam that zayn might have fallen a bit in love with even when danny was moaning on about how he made him _“another mix”_ and _“he took me out to a picnic, this isn’t the 1950s”_. but, zayn guesses, appearances are deceiving.

he feels bad for the kid, really. but the kid's wrapped around danny's finger from the looks of it. he was sure liam had no idea how danny bad-mouthed him or used him or, and this zayn thinks is the worst, how many times danny threw away his mixes.

it had shocked zayn the first time he tossed the carefully folded sleeve into the trash and zayn had fished it out after danny left, angry for liam.

and zayn wasn’t expecting to be so surprised but he must have turned the sleeve over and over just marveling the details. it was decorated with doodles; scattered with stick figure superheroes and rainclouds and slingshots and lavalamps. the words: “midnight memories” was scrawled on the top. letters that zayn ended up tracing over and over with his finger as he put in the CD and pulled up the tracklist on his laptop and listened.

and zayn fell in love. with the music, with liam—well, the idea of liam, anyway. he stole every mix danny threw away from that point on, daydreaming.

he just didn’t expect liam to look so boyband.

zayn can see danny's smug smirk as he pushes through the bodies in the crowd and he just really does not want him here. doesn't want to make small talk or laugh at danny's judgmental remarks or pretend to be the rich private school asshole he has to be every single day at home.

it doesn't even matter if danny’s got a boyfriend with a great taste in music, zayn does not want danny infecting tonight’s vibe. and he’s still making his way over to the bar. it’s too late for zayn to grab louis and run so zayn just turns his head and steadies his breathing, biting back a groan. because when louis was jumping on his bed that afternoon, flinging t-shirts out of zayn’s closet, zayn had let himself get excited about the prospect of a wild night out. no obligations, no responsibilities, no expectations—just louis, zayn, and the thrum of energy, possibility, and _now_ that the city seems to burst with.

and, now, zayn’s gonna have to play nice for danny and his designer sunglasses. he’s almost happy that “liam” looks vapid and shallow even though zayn knows he isn’t. makes it easier to pretend that he never fantasized about being serenaded to in the middle of central park.

but before zayn can shake out his face and put on a tight, stilted smile for danny (or down as much alcohol as louis has), he feels a tap on his shoulder. zayn turns to see Buzzcut’s eyes wide in panic and his forehead scrunched up, like it had been onstage. zayn’s eyes flick to the boy’s lips as they try to form words and, fuck, they’re cherry red and swollen in such an obscene way that zayn can’t help the images flashing across his mind. zayn’s not sure what he wants but before he can ask him anything, the boy inhales deep and looks at zayn and says:

“hey, i know this is gonna sound weird and i know i’m a stranger, but would you mind being my boyfriend for the next five minutes?”

and that is—

well, not what zayn was expecting. he’s not sure if it’s some weird elaborate pick up or if the guy’s a creep or anything but zayn hasn't hooked up with anyone for months and he’s all about helping those in need and, well, Buzzcut looks like he could use some help.

so, instead of answering, zayn does what he’s been itching to do and blinks up at the other boy, nodding almost imperceptibly. he fists a hand into his flannel shirt and pulls Buzzcut into him, pressing his lips to the other boy’s.

he’s not expecting it when Buzzcut leans into him and brings a hand up to tangle in zayn’s hair. he’s not expecting it when his other hand rests along zayn’s back. and he’s so not expecting it when he feels a tongue trace the line of his lips.

but zayn just responds: parting his mouth with a sigh, pulling at the shirt more urgently, trailing his free hand down the side of the other boy’s body.

he gets lost in it. the taste of soft slick lips and the brush of the boy’s nose against zayn’s cheek. he’s sucking at zayn’s bottom lip and zayn holds back a moan because the pressure is making his pants tighten and he is so turned on right now.

he leans back, taking a breath, letting his teeth graze at the boy’s bottom lip when he hears that familiar voice shrill in his ears again.

“liam! zayn!” danny calls out, his eyes flashing with confusion. they turn and the boy's arm snakes around zayn, holding his waist close. “how do you two, like, know each other?”

it takes zayn a moment to realize that the boy leaning into danny’s space, biting at his collar, isn’t liam. that  _liam_ —that  _mixtape liam_ , that  _liam with the shitty handwriting and batman references liam_ —is the boy who’s pulling zayn closer into him. that it’s liam’s hands rubbing up and down zayn’s sides. that it’s liam that just kissed him.

zayn unconsciously licks his lips, looking over to see liam’s brown eyes widen and his cheeks flush with pink.

they lock eyes and move to say something, anything, danny’s stare bearing holes into their backs.

“the—” liam starts while zayn, for god knows what reason, blurts out: “mcdonalds.”

right.

danny’s face contorts even more as he tries to put the pieces together.

liam jumps in, “we, ah, met in mcdonalds. zayn,” his mouth works around zayn’s name and all zayn can think is how he’d sound shouting it as he comes. “was getting coffee and he knocked over that giant tin of sugar all over himself," he nudges zayn's side playfully. "it was horrible. i helped him clean up, told him he was sweet enough without it all over his shirt.” he sees liam’s mouth curl up, ever so slightly, into a smile.

zayn blushes but nods, looking at danny.

he sees danny go to say something and holds his hand up. “but we should, ah, go, right?” zayn adds quickly. “we have to do that, uh, thing. the thing i told you about?”

he can’t tell, but zayn hopes it sounds like he’s implying that they’re off to fuck rather than the truth, that they, well, aren’t.

but liam agrees, pecking zayn on the lips again in a way that feels almost domestic, and turns zayn around with his hands on his back and hooks his chin over zayn’s shoulders so they can walk away.

danny’s eyebrows are still pressed together as his pretty little face tries to figure out what’s happening and why it’s happening. zayn’s just glad the smug look’s been wiped off his lips and he resists the urge to laugh when liam stops them in front of a booth in the corner of the building.

zayn turns around, missing the warmth of liam’s hands when he moves them from zayn’s shoulders. zayn’s still smiling but liam lost the crinkle that was pressed up against his eyes and looks, instead, like the world’s playing a joke on him. zayn wants to say something but he’s not sure where to start so he waits, crossing his arms.

liam stares at zayn as if he’s trying to figure out what to say and zayn doesn’t miss the way his eyes flick down to zayn’s lips more than once but zayn doesn’t make a move, suddenly unsure and a bit insecure.

but, liam, running a hand through his hair, settles for shrugging, defeated, and asks:

“how do you know danny?”

 


	3. liam

the first thing he does is take his hands off of the boy—off of _zayn’s_ shoulders and watches him turn around to face liam. he’s got a whisper of a smile etched on to his lips and liam wants to have the energy to return it but he _can’t_.

not when he’s drowning in questions he needs answered.

he sneaks a look at danny and he’s pouting with his eyebrows knitting together like they do when he’s mad and liam wants to laugh, he wishes he could laugh. logically, he thinks, he should be glad that danny’s annoyed or upset, that liam “showed him” or something. but liam’s not.

if anything, there’s a flicker of hope running through him, like electricity. and liam thinks that he’s found a way to get danny back. for real, this time. that if the mix tapes and the messages didn’t work, than maybe zayn might. but liam’s not That Kinda Guy. he doesn’t use people, doesn’t know how to charm his way into anyone’s pants. he’s not harry, after all.

so he sighs, turning to zayn again, eyes flicking to his lips when his tongue darts out over them.

they kissed. right.

and zayn had tasted like a lifeline; kissed like it was the only thing he wanted to do, like it was the only thing he could think was worth doing. and liam can still feel the press of zayn’s lips against his. he can trace the faint taste of tobacco and spearmint on the inside of his bottom lip where zayn’s teeth had nipped at softly. can almost hear the sigh zayn breathed against liam when parted his lips and liam desperately wants more.

but he also wants to know so much; and he doesn’t know where to start so he settles for the one question that hasn’t left his mind since danny confronted them.

liam runs a hand over his hair and shrugs, “how do you know danny?” he asks.

zayn tries to school his blush but, even under the shitty club lights, liam can see the shy swoop of his eyelashes and the tinge of red climbing up the side of his neck.

zayn’s quiet for a few moments before he clears his throat and says, “i go to school with him.”

“friends?” liam asks, because he wants to know what zayn knows about danny and what he’s been up to and if he talks about liam and if he’d take liam back even though liam knows— _knows_ —that he shouldn’t be thinking about that. shouldn’t be thinking of getting back to goofy pictures in photobooths and sketching gel pen tattoos on each other’s arms but he’s a weak bastard and he wants back all the familiarity and the comfort that came with danny. so he asks, helpless.

zayn scrunches his nose with his arms crossed against his chest, shaking his head no. “not really. he’s not the kinda guy i’d want to hang around.”

“oh,” liam says, disappointed.

there’s silence and liam starts to feel the familiar cloud of nerves brush over him as zayn looks at him with curious eyes. the lights are too bright, the band is too loud, the air is too thick and liam’s about walk away when zayn takes a step towards him, arms still crossed, and says, “you’re danny’s liam, then?”

there’s a smirk playing on his face and liam doesn’t know what that means but he knows that it means that danny’s told zayn about him and that maybe they aren’t friends but they’re close enough to talk about liam when he’s not around.

and that must mean something. that danny talks about liam when he’s not around. and liam wants to know what he says more than he wants a rebound or a random fuck or another gig or anything else he’s ever wanted in his life before that point.

liam’s weak and he wants danny, wants to be good for danny and he doesn’t care what that makes him look like or sound like.

so liam takes a step closer, and “what?” is the first thing that comes out of his mouth. “did he say something about me?” is the second thing and it’s so rushed and so hopeful that liam should be embarrassed but he can’t find it in himself to care.

zayn shakes his head, laughing lightly like it’s amusing. “you poor thing,” he says.

and before liam can go to defend himself or ask zayn what he means by that, zayn uncrosses his arms and brings a hand up to rest gently against liam’s cheek. his thumb softly grazes over liam’s cheekbone once and liam shivers, taking in a sharp breath at the contact when zayn smiles, whispering, “he’s got you whipped.”

this time, liam doesn’t even really register the words because he’s mesmerized by the flecks of gold in zayn’s eyes and the way his thumb is slowly swiping against liam’s cheek again and he leans in slowly, swallowing the tension between them.

he tilts his head down, his gaze flicking between zayn’s lips and his eyes when a loud crash from the bar makes him stumble back, surprised.

there’s a loud wailing and then an unmistakable “zaaaaaaaaayn” that can be heard over the scratchy vocals blaring from the speakers set up around the venue.

zayn closes his eyes sighing in frustration and drags a hand through his hair. “that’s louis.” he explains.

liam nods, unsure who louis is.

“he’s drunk.” zayn says again, taking a step back. “i need to get him home.” his mouth’s curled into a pout and liam’s sure zayn means the words as an apology.

“i have a car,” liam offers before he can even realize what he’s saying. “i mean if you don’t want to, i dunno, walk to the train or home or something.” and liam’s embarrassed, unsure why he’s assuming they live near by or why he thinks zayn would even want him to drive them. he kicks at a crumpled up napkin littering the floor. “i don’t even know if you walked here or if you have a car or anything,” he mumbles.

but zayn doesn’t notice. just nods, smiling slow again as he cocks his head towards the noise and motions for liam to follow him.

when they make their way around the mess of bodies surrounding the source of the noise, liam sees a boy with chestnut brown hair sprawled on the ground. and even though he probably fell a few seconds ago, he’s smiling, eyes closed, like a vision of bliss.

liam chuckles as he helps zayn pick the boy up, “how drunk is he, exactly?” he asks.

zayn groans, settling louis on his feet. “i stopped keeping track after the first four drinks,” he confesses. “i’m a bad friend.”

it’s a passing comment, mumbled into the air as they get louis’ arms around their shoulders but liam leans over to look at the raven haired boy. “no, not at all,” he says, earnest.

zayn offers him a grateful smile and they start walking a very drunk louis out of the bar.

a very drunk louis who’s slowly stirring into consciousness.

the first thing liam hears him say is: “hey. you’re the kid zayn was like fucking with his eyes.”

zayn’s eyes go wide as he starts to sputter excuses and liam chokes on a breath but louis just continues slurring, unfazed, turning towards zayn.

“zaynie! it’s him!” louis hiccups going for a whisper but his voice comes out as a strained shout instead. he turns into zayn even more, trying (but failing) to keep his voice low, “a gentleman always swallows, zee.”

“louis, enough!” zayn yelps, a red blush creeping over his features.

liam lets out a laugh, sneaking a look at the other boy, and pushes through the aged wooden doors out into the cool april air. he’s pretty sure he’s blushing badly too and the shy apology zayn stutters makes him bite back a smile.

they set louis down against the red bricks lining the outside of the building and liam pulls out his keys from where he had stuffed them in his jeans pocket.

he was lucky enough to get here early and find parking opposite the exit but before he can even walk over to open his car, he hears harry’s familiar drawl calling out his name.

liam turns and sees harry and niall walking towards him and gives them a sheepish look, guilty for forgetting their plans.

“sorry i totally forgot to tell you. um, i’m gonna head home. zayn needs a ride anyway so,” he lets the rest of the sentence linger in the air, jingling his keys as an explanation.

harry gives him a disbelieving look before turning to zayn and a sprawled out louis with an eyebrow raised. “zayn?” he says, slow, lips catching into a smile.

zayn nods.

“leaving so soon?”

zayn nods again, gesturing to louis, “he’s drunk.”

niall’s gaze shifts down to zayn’s shirt, “you like five seconds of summer?” he asks, changing the subject as he nudges harry with his elbow.

liam’s eyes catch the logo on zayn’s shirt for the first time. a smile breaks out on his face at the sight of his favorite band’s name etched on to the thin material of zayn’s shirt and he feels a sense of excitement flood his veins for the first time in a long time. this was the band that made liam want to play in the first place, the band that thrummed through his veins and made him feel passionate about something for once in his life.

but his smile falters when he remembers that danny loved them too and how he’d made liam learn the chords to “she looks so perfect” so that they could sing it together. that it was this band that played in the background the first time they had sex and how liam couldn’t look at any of their albums for weeks—much less listen to them—after danny dumped him.

but the pain that had engulfed him then is dull now and he catches zayn’s eyes, offering a small smile.

“yeah,” zayn answers. “they were supposed to have a—”

“secret show tonight, yeah?” harry finishes for him.

and, what? since when did harry know about secret shows that liam didn’t know about? since when did harry know about a 5sos gig that liam didn’t know about?

liam had been dying to see them perform live since he heard their first grainy mixtape three years back. it was winter and he had huddled into the front seat of his car with a cup of tea and put in the cd he’d found thrown in the ‘$1 box’ at his favorite record store. he’d played it all the way through once and then again before calling harry and niall over to listen to them too. and he’d been trying to see them live since but they’d either been all the way across the country or at some basement gig that liam couldn’t get into.

so liam’s eyes are fliting between harry and zayn ‘cause he wants—needs—to know more, to know where and when and why and how.

he’s about to let out the barrage of questions when zayn huffs out a laugh, “yeah but louis pre-gamed too hard, so.”

“how disappointing,” harry says with a click of his tongue. “but,” he starts again, dimples blossoming on his face, “lucky for you i have a proposition.”

and liam groans, knowing harry’s look too well. this is what harry considers a Good Idea and harry’s well intentioned but his Good Ideas rarely ever turn out as well as he plans them to.

“a proposition?” zayn repeats, deadpan.

zayn looks over to liam questioningly, but liam can’t do anything but shrug. ‘cause liam doesn’t know what harry’s thinking but he is sure that harry and niall are coming across as ‘strangers-with-candy’ creepy and liam wishes, 5sos or no 5sos, that he’d just had the chance to take zayn home on his own than not at all.

harry nods, sharing a look with niall. “yeah. why don’t you and liam find out where 5sos are playing and we’ll take louis home.”

zayn barks out a laugh. “no way. why?”

harry’s less fazed by zayn’s automatic response than liam is and he continues, “because poor liam,” harry says with an exaggerated pout, “loves 5sos and he’d be pretty upset if he missed them wouldn’t you, li?”

but liam doesn’t answer, can’t answer. he’s still slackjawed at harry’s suggestion.

“and we love 5sos,” harry continues gesturing to himself and niall, “and you clearly love 5sos so if me and niall, here, were to take your friend home, you and liam could find out where they’re playing and we could meet you there. easy.”

zayn opens and closes his mouth a couple times, trying to form an answer. he ends up sucking in his bottom lip in thought, eyes flicking from harry to liam to louis as he thinks.

“why should i trust you?” zayn settles for asking.

and, well, that’s a good question, liam supposes.

“why would trust liam here?” niall asks, leaning against the building.

it’s quiet for a few moments before zayn says, “fair enough.” he turns to liam, “they’re cool?” he asks, softer.

“they’re cool,” liam all but mumbles, in awe that this night might actually be happening.

zayn studies liam for a moment, gaze stony, before turning to harry and niall again.

“alright,” he says.

“alright!” niall yells up to the sky as harry goes around to help zayn pick up louis again.

they drape his arms over their shoulders and harry turns to zayn, smirking.

his curls fall over his eyes and he leans in to say: "the van’s wicked. we have a mattress and everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyyy thanks so much for reading :)))))))  
> um but i'm not even sure if anyone's interested in me continuing this so it'd be really really great if i could get any kind of feedback!!!  
> thanks again !! x


End file.
